


Chopped 'verse

by deerchris



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Chef!Dean, M/M, POV Castiel, POV Second Person, Prisoner!Cas, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-19 20:56:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1483639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deerchris/pseuds/deerchris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No employer in their right mind would hire a killer and alcohol addict. </p><p>Then Dean comes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue—Smashed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a prologue, so Dean doesn't appear in this chapter. Feel free to skip to the next part.

There's something interesting about the way both of your names are printed on the invitation. " _You are cordially invited to the union of Amelia and Cas Novak. Please RSVP by…_ " Your bride-to-be gives a shy smile and folds the parchment in half. She grabs an envelope from the stack and slides the invitation in, licking the seam of the glue and sealing the letter. "Aunt Becky" she writes in neat cursive. _Crazy Aunt Becky_ , Amelia would say. The pen glides over the paper.

* * *

_It's time to get dressed_ , your brother tells you. He hands you a white tux, along with a smile. _Don't get cold feet_.

Your mother-in-law-to-be takes a pink rose and tucks it into the pocket.

You don't think you've ever seen your father-in-law-to-be cry.

Your own mother gives you a hug and buries her face in the crook of your neck. Her mascara is smeared, but you don't tell her that. Your brother gently pries her away from your "monkey suit" and the four shuffle off to the garden.

* * *

Amelia's walking down the aisle now, white dress trailing behind her, knocking against daisies planted in the grass. Her arm is locked around her father's. You don't think she's ever looked more beautiful. You remind yourself to tell her that when you're on your honeymoon. Vows traded, rings exchanged. _I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the-_ your best friend who was ordained on the internet doesn't have time to finish his sentence before you lean in and plant one on your new wife.

* * *

The catered food from _Dean's_ could be better, you think. Not as good as your own cooking, but making food is difficult for over 300 relatives, half of whom you've never met but are being added to your family tree as of now, the other half who you would "accidentally" add laxatives to their appetizers if you _were_ in charge of their delicatessens. _  
_

It's more than a horrible idea to allow your 6 older brothers to give toasts because they absolutely will refuse _not_ to embarrass you with childhood memories you're ashamed of, while you bow your head and try not to give in to their laughs.

* * *

It's ten years later, an eight year old daughter, Claire, who has your blue eyes and your wife's auburn hair. It's a good combination, you remember telling Amelia in the delivery room. Claire spots your car sitting outside the school and looks both ways before crossing like you taught her. She dashes across the street and opens the door to your black HOV. A trip to Baskin Robbins since it's Friday. Mint chocolate chip dribbles down her chin and she giggles. Your wife joins you later and doesn't mind getting strawberry on her blouse.

* * *

You check the doors, windows, alarm system. You crawl onto the left side of your bed while Amelia breathes softly from the right. You drift off.

You wake up later when there's the sound of glass shattering and your wife's scream from downstairs. It's cut short. Then there's the sound of a cup of water hitting the tile floor. By the time that happens, you've bolted out of bed with that crowbar in your hands you keep beside your bed. You don't feel your feet fly down the stairs.

The moon is bouncing off of glass shards on the floor when the feeling under your feet change from wood boards to cold tile. The lights don't work; electricity was disconnected. There's blood. Amelia is gone. Her body lies lifeless on the floor like it doesn't belong there.

 _Claire_ , your brain yells. The carpet on the stairs is coated with blood in the shape of a hunter's boot when you climb two at a time.

The door to your daughter's room is slightly ajar. You hear a soft whimper, the cold iron still in your hands. Someone comes out the door and he blocks the light coming from the four paned window. Your brain registers that Claire is not tall enough to reach the bathroom sink; let alone the window.

The stranger sees you. His eyes are full blown black, daring you to test him. He jumps through the window. You hear a muffled crackle of the leaves as his feet hit the ground from the second story.

Claire has an eight inch gash on her stomach and is cradling her abdomen like she's trying to hold her insides together. You fall to the floor and press against her hands, trying to stop the bleeding. Your daughter's not crying, but her eyes are fogged. She takes after your strength. Claire's last breath hangs in the air as she sags in your arms.

It's a sound you won't forget.

* * *

This is how you find yourself in that stranger's home, a few bottles of Jack Daniel's later. It's a miracle you can still stand up vertically.

You followed his track of your family's blood. He lives a few streets from you. In his framed pictures, your drunken brain recognizes him from a neighborhood barbeque party a few months back.

His name is Alistair. The fucker is in his bed, hiking boots propped up against the foot of the bed. You can see the red blood hidden in the laces.

You're holding the same crowbar. You don't hesitate this time.

_Smash, smash, smash._

It's messy. You're a human possessed. Alastair's light brown eyes are open when you hover over his bed. His shrieks are cut off when a blow from your weapon hits his throat. Then his temple. His knees. No more screaming. His face is bashed in and you can't remember if it was you doing it or the creature inside.

It's a feeling you won't forget.

The stranger's neighbor has the decency to call 911. Flashes of blue and red lights that supposedly represent freedom spin the room into a mirage of nausea. You don't fight the handcuffs thrown carelessly over your wrists. Or when your head is pushed into the cruiser. Or when the jury finds you guilty. Or when you exchange grim smiles with your cellmate.

But you fight when they pry the titanium ring off your finger.

It's a bittersweet ending after all.


	2. Prologue—Smashed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off that onion cutting contest between Gordon Ramsay and a prison cook.

There's something funny about the way each of the five hundred criminals in the dusty cafeteria can look at you differently when you're serving them burnt sludge that looks like it was cooked from the depths of Hell.

You can't pinpoint exactly what each person is feeling when you tip the steel serving spoon over and pour "soup" into their foam bowls, but being in the cage for so long—decades, even—gives you an idea of why someone was thrown in, in the first place.

Say for instance, you look to the side, where your prison buddy of five years, Balthazar, has that angry scar, probably caused by a silver blade or a broken glass bottle, that runs diagonally from his left ear down to his right collarbone. You took one look at Balth and knew he was probably arrested for fighting with the wrong crew, bad enough to land him in the hospital with 33 stitches. No big deal, half the guys in prison are in because of something that stupid.

Or Chuck, whose hands and eyes twitched uncontrollably and who was stuck in solitary for the longest time. It didn't take a genius to figure out he was probably arrested for cooking up a meth lab in his mother's basement.

Or yourself. No marks or shaking, but that just meant you were probably arrested for murder. But no one knows it was because you were trying to protect your loved ones.

You sigh.

You remember that you get out in a little over three days and you have nowhere to go, nowhere to sleep. No employer in their right mind would hire a killer and alcohol addict. No family would dare take you in since you're a disgrace, a pacifist gone rogue. Then he visits.

His name is Dean. He's the head chef at a restaurant called Dean's, which is the most creative title you've ever heard of. You tell him that and he laughs. You don't recognize the title.

Things have changed a lot since the last time you set foot on a place not surrounded by barbed wires or cops with guns.

Dean finds out you're the cook turned sous chef for the town prison. He asks if you can chop an onion without crying, and you answer that your blue eyes haven't shed a tear since the day your daughter died in your arms. He asks how fast you can dice a tomato. You decide to be smug and tell him faster than Dean can even pick up the knife. Dean takes that as a challenge, for fun, you think. He's not a low life and wants to make you feel as bad as the fungus between his toes, but you don't tell him you hit that level the day you were admitted here.

Dean hands you a ceramic blade—his own. You set it down next to your splintered, wooden cutting board and pick up your steel knife, waving it in the air like you're saying hello. Dean smirks and throws you a firm, red tomato. His assistant sets an end grain cutting board in front of him, and he takes his own blade. Dean says ready? Set? Go.

You chop.

You don't think about it. This is the way it felt that night. The crime you committed. You didn't think about how wrong it would be. Red juice from the tomato is like the blood splattered on your hands.

_Chop, chop, chop._

Angle the blade's tip down towards the board and let its steel body follow, slicing a clean cut through the fruit. It's almost not violent enough. You've never forgiven yourself; you're sure his family hasn't forgiven you either.

The guy you hurt. The monster. You heard his screams. This fruit remains silent.

Before you know it, your tomato is chopped. Diced nicely. You look up. Dean is staring at you, at your hands, at the furrowed brows your face possesses. He's smiling, impressed. It's been a while since anyone's face had been turned that way.

You notice Dean still has his ceramic knife in his hands, still shined to perfection. His tomato remains an uncut sphere on his board.

Dean offers you a job at his restaurant when you get out. You accept because there's nothing you can really do but say yes.

He gives you a place to stay.

A year later, you have a family: Dean, your fellow chefs, Bobby and Ellen, and the dishwasher kids, Sam and Jo. You smile.


	3. Dean's Gourmet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean's POV, not Cas'.

_Wolf_ _needs to be fired_ , Bobby tells you. _He messes up more orders than he gets right, takes his sweet ol’ grand time in the kitchen, cooking soft noodles rather than al dente, cries like he rewatched the ending of Titanic when chopping an onion, do I need to go on?_

You shake your head. _Wolf deserves another chance, y_ ou say, _I’m your boss, trust me. I wouldn’t have hired him if I knew he was going to fail me. Besides, the demand for sous chefs are higher than the top shelf in the freezer where I know you keep your liquor._ Bobby gapes his mouth open, then closes his eyes and breathes in deeply, turning away and pushing open the door back to the kitchen. It swings on its hinges once, twice, three times before coming to a complete stop.

 _Welcome to, Dean’s. Can I take your order?_ You recite to the next person in line. She orders a filleted salmon seasoned with your special honey-ginger-barbecue sauce, to-go. You smile and rip the order off the pad, taping it up on the kitchen’s window where Bobby and Wolf can see.

Wolf is slicing his way through a raw steak, cutting carefully around the perimeter of fat surrounding the blood red meat. Bobby isn’t anywhere in the kitchen; probably outside drinking a glass to get rid of stress.

A slight squeak coming from the mute man stops you before you’re allowed to turn back to the customer. Wolf’s knife clatters to the ground, and he stares at it, waiting, as if it’ll pick itself up and resume hacking into the steak.

When Wolf realizes that his blade is staying on the ground, he picks it back up and tosses it between his hands, not bothering to ask Sam to wash it off. You open my mouth in shock when the knife touches the steak again, and _Hey_ _!_ tumbles out of your mouth before you’re able to stop it. 

* * *

When you hand the pink slip to Wolf an hour later, he gives you a sad look, hesitating, before snatching the paper out of your hands. Bobby stands in the corner, arms crossed, and runs a tongue over his teeth, trying to hide the smell of alcohol that lurks in your office.

This is how you find yourself standing in front of the Lawrence County Prison with Bobby. The next moment finds you in the cafeteria, where criminals stare at your button down and black work pants, as opposed to their orange jumpsuits. The security guard ushers you into the kitchen, where a dark haired, blue eyed man looks up from his pot of gumbo. Another guy with a deep scar running down his face that disappears at the neck of his shirt stands next to him.

You step up and introduce yourself as Dean, head chef of _Dean’s_. The sous chef looks at you strangely, ladle in hand, tilting his head to the right, and tells you that’s the most creative name he’s ever heard of. You laugh without meaning to. It comes out sounding faker than you meant.

 _His name is Cas_ , scar-man grunts under his breath. He slings a towel over his shoulder and exits the kitchen, leaving Bobby, Cas, and you alone.

 _Can you chop an onion without shedding manly tears?_ You ask Cas, trying to lighten the thick mood that threatens to suffocate you all. It’s a trick question, you suppose. You’ve never met anyone who was capable of doing that. Cas’ answer, ‘ _Haven’t cried since my daughter died in my arms_ ’, surprises you, and you hang your head low.

 _How fast can you dice a tomato?_ You question next. Cas shrugs, _Faster than you can pick up your fancy blade._

 _I’ll take that as a challenge._ You smirk and toss him one of the two tomatoes that you’ve been rolling in your hands behind your back. Cas catches it with one hand easily, testing its firmness with two fingers. You hand him one of the ceramic knives you brought along with you just for this purpose, and Cas hands it back, grabbing a steel blade off the hook and waving it at you, an unreadable expression plastered on his face. Bobby places your best cutting board in front of you as Cas gets his own ready.

_Ready? Set? Go._

You watch Cas’ fingers fly over the fruit, watches as his brows furrow as he loses himself in his task. It’s almost murderous.

Your tomato remains untouched, rolling around silently on my board. Cas looks up at you when he’s complete.

You offer Cas a chance to replace Wolf when he gets out. He accepts.

Cas becomes part of your family within a week

You see him smile for the first time after a year.


End file.
